The Wolf and The Hunter
by Vulpes of Carim
Summary: A former nun recounts her story to an old friend. A sociopath confesses her sins. Their stories are entwined, with tragedy, murder, and a game set afoot. Can the Wolf protect against the Hunter?
1. Campfire Tale-1

**The Wolf and the Hunter**

 **Foreword**

Memory, it can haunt, comfort, fade, or burn. As long as I've been around, I've seen all of these things. The horror that haunts, the comfort of an old happiness, the burn of ire, and of course, the fading of Undeath.

I am Lupa, and I have a story to tell before the real tale can begin. These are my oldest memories, so if I should ramble, pay no mind. I fight hard each day just to retain my sanity, let alone recall my early life.

 **Campfire Tales-1**

Before I became Undead, I was a nun, in a poor city in Carim. Each day I would see the starving vagrants and poor peasantry, and each night I would utter a prayer in their names. Our goddess, Caitha saw fit to let them die slowly. I disagreed.

One night, in my twenty fifth year, I took to the night, I acted against my faith, and I dressed in an old hunter's clothing. The black leather tight against my skin, and the leather shawl hanging loose over my right shoulder, I hid my face behind a hat, and tied my long blue hair in a ponytail.

I climbed up to the roof of the grand cathedral, and leapt from roof to roof. The Gothic architecture afforded me many ways to move around the city unseen. I worked my way to the wealthier part of town.

This would be my life, for several months. I would sneak around, and steal valuables from the wealthy. I then sold the stolen goods, and purchased food for the poor under the guise of church charity.

Finally, after eight months, I was caught, taken into the center of the city, and executed publicly. That is where the important part of the story begins. That was my last act as a mortal. I awoke screaming in bed.

The initial reaction I had was to check my wounds. After ten minutes of looking up and down, on the back of my right shoulder, I found the circular abyssal hole they call the Darksign.

It was not long before I was found by the guards. I went out into the night once more, to find my leg pierced by an arrow. I screamed in pain, and the guard dragged me to a cell.

I was moved from the cell to a reinforced covered wagon in the morning. I saw nothing for the longest time. The pitch darkness and unsteady motion brought me to the edge of madness, and peering over it, I found doubt. Doubt in my faith, doubt in my sanity, and doubt in myself.

The cart stopped, the door thrown open, and blinded by the light, I was dragged out once more. Tossed into a cell on the lower deck of a ship, I found that I'd be calling this room home for a while, if the carved tallies were an indication.

Weeks spent alone in the cell, fed once a day, left me tired, and terrified when I was dropped off at the asylum. I was once more locked in a cell. That would be my end, were it not for a mysterious knight from Astora.

He dropped a key on a corpse into my cell, without saying a word. This is one of the few moments I remember clearly after leaving the cell. I stumbled out into the halls, past my shambling, Hollow captors, clutching a sword hilt the corpse had been grasping. Each step hurt, my joints throbbed after decades of inactivity. I reached a ladder, and with great effort I climbed.

For the first time since I was captured, the sun truly, directly embraced my skin, leathery with age, and my near Hollow state. My mind was sluggish, I came to a sword hilt in a small pile of bones. I grasped the hilt and the bones lit fire.

The warmth was intoxicating, I sat close to the fire, the first comfort since well before I had initially died. I rested for quite some time, as day became night. My mind had time to clear, I was ready to move on, and knew what I needed to do.

I started toward the large double doors sharing the courtyard with the Bonfire. I entered them after expending great effort shoving the doors open. I took a moment to examine the room I was to enter, to the left a torch lit wall, leading to a doorway, to the right a torch lit wall with no openings, straight ahead another set of double doors, and above them a balcony, and above that, starlight.

A loud roar, a tumultuous crash, and a vague towering figure… I awoke at the fire. A wall of fog blocked my way. I entered again, the darkness near consuming, a vague, bulky shadow revealed only by the rumble of movement and the silhouette against the torchlight. I ran in, rushing the left, scraping my hand along the crumbling bricks of the left wall, leaving it pained, and bloody. A crash behind me, I stumble, falling to my left, a metal scraping sound, a clang. I look up, fear racing through my mind.

Metal bars block the passage I have stumbled through, A large hammer cracking the stone floor just outside the bars, it lays still a moment. The hammer shifts loose,lifting high enough to see the grotesque, curled, bat-like face of the gargantuan beast wielding it. I back away, down the stairs, tripping, and landing with a splash.

I get up, and frantically glance back, to see I've tripped over a twisted sword, and a pile of bones. Once more, I grasp the hilt, and once more a fire springs to life. I rested here, waiting, letting myself focus, panic gave way to determination. Stagnation gave way to desperation.

I stand up, and rush into a hall, a familiar feeling pierces my left leg, I look down to see an arrow sticking through my thigh. I limp, leaning left as I hop down the hall, My hand finds a lack of wall to grasp and I fall on my side, crying out in pain. I pull the arrow out, grunting and gasping in pain. I look around and grasp a small, round, leather and steel shield. I limp out into the hall, looking up the hall to see the archer, firing another shot at me.

This time, it bounces off of the shield, and I limp towards him. He begins to run around a blind corner. I reach where he stood in this dilapidated asylum, and something metallic skids away after my feet hit it. A knife, I grasp it in my hand, its serrated edge gleaming as the sun hits it. Grasping my new weapon, I limp after the archer, to find his hollowed form grasping a broken sword.

I block his first swing, the clang music to my ears, the recoil causing adrenaline to surge through me. I follow his lack of balance with a quick swing of the knife. He readies a second swing, and again, I block, shuddering knowing what comes next. I swing again, and again. The blood splatters over my face and chest, the archer falls limp to the ground. I take his bow.

Bow slung over my shoulder, I pass through the fog in front of me, limping onward, I reach a fork, overlooking the first fire I'd found, and decide on right. Going right, I find stairs leading up, and stairs leading down, I go up. As I limp up, I hear a metal scraping, and a rumble, a large metal sphere comes rolling down, and I fall off the side of the stairs on my right, trying to avoid it.

I stand up, coughing, and spitting out dust as I recover my composure, I hear a crash, and start up the stairs I've landed on. The wall at the landing is broken, I hear heavy breathing, and whimpering prayers.

"Gods, I'm done in. Please…" Interrupted by rasping, and a coughing fit. "Send someone, anyone. Give me a legacy."

I walk in, to find a knight, wounded, in a pile of rubble, and a hole in the ceiling. His helmet is half caved in, the faceplate hanging on roughly, dangling from his right cheek. His bloodied blonde hair hangs loosely in front of his slightly pale face. He raises his head to speak.

"You…" He coughs and rasps. "You are no Hollow."

"No…" I barely whisper, my voice unused for decades. The sound foreign to my own ears.

"Have you…" He sputters and coughs up blood, spattering it on his chest. "Heard the legend?"

"Legend?" I query softly. My voice stronger than it was a moment before.

"In my family there is a saying. Thou that art Undead art Chosen, in thine pilgrimage from the Asylum..." He coughs and rasps. "Make way to the land of Ancient Lords, and ring the Bell of Awakening, then thine purpose thou shalt know."

"You're hurt. Is there anything I can do?" I speak louder this time. Genuine concern in my voice.

"Yes. Take this key, and my Flask. Mend your wounds with Estus, and get away. I'd hate to harm a kind woman such as you after I pass." He holds out a bottle of glowing orange liquid, and a large iron key.

"But your wounds, they're worse than mine, you should drink it, and heal yourself." I try to reason.

He chuckles.

"Don't you get sentimental on me. I'm through, finished. Carry my name, and carry my flask. I am Oscar of Astora, last of my line." He coughs, sputters and rasps. I take the flask in hand, I hook his keyring onto my belt, and I raise the flask to my lips, drinking down some of the thick, sweet, warm liquid inside. I feel a tingling in my legs, and my chest. My broken ribs snap back into place, the hole in my leg closes up, and I feel newfound determination.

"At least, Oscar, allow me to give you last rites." He nods.

"Caitha, Goddess of Tears, I ask of thee, cry for this poor soul, undeserving of his end, shed blue tears upon this land, the place where this soul shall rest. I, your servant, Lupa of Carim, shall bear the weight of this soul, and carry forth his burden, that his soul mayest peace discover."

Events after this point are hazy, a blur of motion, a crushing pain, a loud beast's roar of pain, and splashes of red. A large bird, a new home, a dozen battles, a burning, and a sadness. Lordran was no more. My next memories were in Lothric.

 **-Interlude-**

"Anduin, my good friend. How many years have we spent on this noble task, that I am just now spinning my tale?" I ask solemnly.

"Lupa, I've known you so long, you know I don't keep time. Not much point. Or am I still waiting on old age?" He jokes with a smirk. His short, scraggly brown hair was matted down with sweat, his Bascinet laying on the ground to his right, his shield strapped over his shoulder. His armor chainmail, with blue and gold cloth covering it, noble house markings old enough to be unrecognizable to Unkindled younger than he or I. He reaches up with a smile and swipes my hat, and puts it on his head.

"You and I are old, my friend. Over a hundred years, and we've known each other at least forty. That hat doesn't suit you, your hair's a mess to behold!" We burst out laughing. His guffaws are quite the rancorous sound. His voice smooth, and his disposition can make anyone smile.

"Well, we can't all have clean hair the colour of blueberries, can we? I'm a knight, not a primadonna!" His Astoran cheer is infectious. His sarcasm offsets my typical seriousness.

"Primadonna though I may be, at least I bathe regularly!" I jest. We spend the next several hours joking back and forth, and laughing to forget our troubles. If nothing else, Anduin of Astora is my best friend, and confidante.


	2. Confessions-1

**Confessions-1**

"Forgive me, Sister, for I have sinned. I have taken lives, many of which were undeserving. That is what you followers of Velka are for, surely. If for nothing else than to hear of our sins." My mind is a haze. So little time left to get this story out. Should I go mad, I welcome that little comfort.

"Forgive me, Sister I suppose introductions are in order first, a blade made of souls really is not the best way to start the conversation. Your name, Sister?" Without turning around the nun, on her knees with her back towards me, trembles, and stutters out her words.

"L-L-L-Lyria, of Carim. P-P-P-Please… Velka protect me." She can barely get that out. That's all I want from her anyway. Might need new holy ears to hear my story, these ones are close to fainting. Shame I made short work of her protector, he'd have worked fine.

"Well, L-L-L-Lyria, I am known as Cara, of Vinheim I suppose. I've a long story to tell you, and I promise you'll live to hear it, should you cooperate with my wishes, of course. Now, get comfortable, if you're good, I'll make sure you live to tell this story. Turn around, have a seat, did that knight have a name?" I've no real interest in this particular victim, but asking about her friend may calm the young nun. A panicked mind lacks focus.

"Octus. His name was Octus. May he rest in peace." She looked somewhat terrified, though she was not wrong to be. I noticed that she was a bit less tense, still shaking, but not stuttering, the fact she knew I wanted her alive was definitely helping.

"Well, know that he died conducting his duty. Now, for my sins. It all began when I was a little girl, eleven to be precise. My mother always told me that I had hair the colour of midnight, and eyes deep and blue as the sea. My family hit hard times, stricken by poverty. I yearned to escape, to use my wits, and climb to a position where money was no issue. The Dragon school is the ruling house of Vinheim, and I lived near to the Headquarters."

I pull a flask from the knight's satchel, and swig down some of his estus, he wasn't needing it. Not anymore. I offer the flask to the nun, she sobs, and looks down. I suppose slaying a long time friend would make anyone lose their eagerness to drink.

" Even at that young age, I was quite agile. I couldn't afford tuition for the school. I came up with a plan, and put it to motion one morning. I left a note under my bed, explaining how I might not come home. I then went to the headquarters, and started down an alleyway next to the building, I began climbing the architecture did not allow many footholds, it took over an hour to reach the third floor, my knuckles white, my fingers bleeding, I climbed into the unattended office window."

"You were determined?" Lyria asked, loosening up a little.

"I had to be. Magic was the only way to get anywhere." I spoke earnestly. I lack proper empathy, or at the least, it has dulled to a point of indistinction.

"Vinheim lacks religious structure?" She asked with a tinge of actual curiosity in her voice.

"Sort of, the Dragon School doesn't encourage or discourage any sort of worship, no gods are acknowledged, nor are they taboo."

"As I climb in the window, an older man turned to look at me, and I came to know him as "The Dean." He asked of my name, and how I made it up without anyone seeing me, or hearing my ascent. He asked how old I was, and where I came from. I begged of him to let me learn magic, I swore to do anything it took to learn. He told me after a grin I now know as devious that I could learn magic, after a few years of service."

"The next few weeks, I was trained and taught a few spells, and more… Espionage related skills. Parkour, silencing my footsteps, a spell to mitigate sound, a spell to protect against falls, a spell to form a sword from magic. A spell to focus souls onto a weapon. I grew eager to please this "Kind" man."

"I'd been a Black Robe student for three weeks, I was given a task, and I'd been quite eager to do whatever it took. I was told to take an item, and slip it into a desk, unnoticed. The item, was a red stained chime. The desk, belonged to a local mage, independent of the Dragon school. I know now that he was framed for the murder of a priest from Carim, and executed publically. At the time, it was just a test."

" My next test came after a week or so, I was to steal something from another mage, who furthered studies and did not report findings to the school. I was to steal his scrolls, and deliver them to the Dean. The scrolls were old ones, written on golden parchment. They came from an old land, Oolacile. I was taught a new spell that week. Serendipitous pursuits would be easier, with Hidden Body at my disposal. Upon a wave of my staff, and focusing this pseudo magic across my form, I would become transparent."

"Once I mastered this spell, my real sins began. Two weeks of practice, and I was given my next test. Promised that I'd have more chances to prove myself, and that in my spare time I would be taught new spells. I was sent to "Silence" a local priest, who had been crying out at the total rule of the Dragon school. I slew the holy man in the night, undetected, and returned. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. I'd killed him with a flashsword, swept clean through his neck in a quick swing. My first kill. There were many to come. I served in this manner for another eleven years."

"You were an assassin?" Lyria asked, a hint of understanding in her voice.

"What am I now?" I ask rhetorically.

 **-Interlude 2-**

"Anduin, can I ask you something?" I say calmly with a smile, as I lie gazing at the stars, fire dwindling between us.

"Anytime." He says with a childlike enthusiasm.

"What will we do, when there are no more wicked, to protect the weak ones from?" The question was honest, the curiosity morbid. If there are no more wicked, who then do we protect them from? Our swords are not meant to be unused.

"We'll either die happy, knowing that we were successful, or the world will have ended." I mull it over, the answer wasn't satisfying either way. I stare wistfully into the stars, wondering if fate would see fit to have this moment last forever. Peaceful moments, no call for help across worlds, no quiet prayer for a dying friend. Just starlight and good company.

"I'll have to be back soon, duty time." Anduin says, as he grips his helmet and shield. I hear the sigh of him fading from my world. I'm not sure why fate always decides that the calm moments need to be when danger strikes those we protect. Such is the fate of the Sentinels.

I lie in the peaceful silence, and once more am taken into thinking. Why do we do what we do? The Sentinels serve no particular god, we don't do it in service of ourselves, there is nothing to gain for our deeds, save another ear collected in proof of our concord kept. We have no real leader, and the only conceivable reason we protect the weak, is that they grow strong and may join our ranks.

The Way of Blue serves no god, but rather, serves the prayers of the frail and helpless. The capable persevere, so that the weak can grow strong. We serve not the strength of men. We serve not a god, or a king. We are not protectors asking for payment, nor do we receive any. Is it possible, that our way exists purely to further the goals of the meek?

I watch a star pass by, shooting through the sky. It travels the heavens, with direction, and purpose, yet it does not ponder on why. I have traveled with Anduin, our independent protection of the meek as our only guiding force for decades. The Way of Blue needs Sentinels, as we Sentinels need the Way of Blue. Without the meek, we are aimless, and without the strong, the meek tend towards hollowing.

But what of the day, when the meek need not protection? What becomes of an aimless soul in our Unkindled state? We were Undead once, but we've since burned, we bear no Darksign, yet still we revive. Do we still hollow, even after escaping it once? What is the price of eternity?

I run out of time for pondering, as the familiar tug hits my heart, and I grasp onto my blades. The sigh comes, as I put on my hat, and my pouch. I may not know why I protect, but still it is my sworn duty. Perhaps an oath is reason enough.


	3. Duty-1

**-Duty 1-**

I rise, into the familiar city, on the familiar bridge. Irrithyll. I see a panicked, frightened Unkindled run past on my right, my Blue spirit form shining bright the protection I provide. My rapier is held at the ready, I walk slowly forward, watching distant tracks in the snow as they close in, faster, closer, then suddenly a foot appears from thirty feet away, followed by a torso and a helmet, an obscuring ring, familiar. His axe gleaming, the red glow portraying his intent.

I've seen this many times, an Unkindled gets greedy, and decides to hunt the weak for embers. I step forward, meeting his gaze, and motion for him to come forth. He takes my bait, swinging down hard as he got close, I sidestep his blow, and deliver a quick punch with my left hand caestus, the gentle imbuing of magic puffs out a small glow of souls on the impact. He staggered from the hit, and swung his axe sideways toward me, as I back stepped, dodging the blade by inches. I rush in, fencing stance not given up, and place my rapier in his shoulder. He drops the axe as I rip my rapier out.

Hi pulls a left handed dagger, his right arm limp. I step back as he flails, and I take two quick jabs at his gut. The Finger of Rosaria backs up, out of sight range, and vanishes again. The glow of Estus at head level tells me that he has recuperated. Then I see the second set of footprints closing in from further out. Textbook. I bait the axe wielder out, holding his weapon in my left hand, and tossing it into the snow, throwing up enough white powder to see the form of the second red, rushing through, I pull a knife and throw.

The knife pins into the unsuspecting red, the floating knife now an indicator, I pull my bow, notch three arrows, and fire them into the throat of the red, his Black cloak, falls over him, visible as the ring hides not the dead. I return my aim to the Axe wielder, in time to see his black separation crystal. The sigh of the desummoning tells me that he has gone home, afraid of a real fight.

I feel the tugging again, this time back home. My duty fulfilled. I hear the shout of "Thank the heavens!" as I raise an arm in quiet resolve. I find myself standing back at the place I stood before, the moon still high in the sky, the fire still dying, nearly just embers. I throw a ragged cloak down, one I wore in lieu of my hat on occasion, the long black cloak covered the ground, keeping it from making me cold. I lie on it, and wait.

I hear a sigh, and look to see Anduin constituting back into our world. He has a wound, large on his chest, and a serious limp. I leap to my feet. Rushing to my friend's side. Just in time as he collapses from his injuries.

He's hurt, badly, magic cuts, not something a sword can do. Clean, like the flesh split clean on its' own. I pull my estus, and raise it to his lips. I make him drink from it. Five swigs, Six, all I had. He healed, I watched the wounds mend before my eyes, I have never seen him come back hurt this badly from our duty.

"Anduin, speak to me, what accomplished this?" There is no way this was a normal Finger, no way. I have dealt with so many, never has one been so powerful. Mages, spellswords, the blows are never so savage.

"A Robe, Black as night. She didn't get him. I still completed my duty. I still did it." He rambles, delirious from blood loss, it will pass given time, but for now, I need to watch over him. I help him over to my cloak, lying on a pile of leaves. I grab some more wood, and start a fresh fire. I pull a cloth, intended for mending armor, and wet it from the river. I lay the cloth on Anduin's forehead, and let him rest. I watch over him, unsettled.


	4. Campfire Tale-2

**-Campfire Tale-2-**

Anduin begins to stir, no longer delirious. He walks up, and stirs the embers of the fire with his sword. I sit, mulling over the state he was in last night. He looks to my glum face, and turns his frown to a smirk, trying to hide how concerned he is with the experience.

"Lupa, you were telling your story last night? It can't be over yet." Anduin asks, dodging the conversation he knew I was going to have.

"No, it is not. My story can't end." He's lucky, I'm not ready to talk about it. My past is a spiral. I remember distinctly, when I first performed my duty as a Sentinel.

"I had been dormant. Technically dead. No idea how many cycles. I had burned in the first flame, but could not rekindle it. I'd risen, slain a few large beasts, and reached the Crucifixion Woods..."

I'd never thought to provide help. I had grown strong, gained skill, a quickness of mind, and a quickness of body unrivaled by most Unkindled. I'd fought through Lordran. I'd sifted the ruins of grandeur, I'd found new strength, though my faith was lost.

I joined the Sentinels as a courtesy, I didn't want to disappoint the lad. Anri, I believe it was. He'd offered up the crest, and I tied it onto my belt. Not long after taking my oath, I'd felt the first tug. My first duty.

`I found myself standing in the swamp, the crab slammed its' claw into the ground at my feet, I backpedaled out of the way just in time. I continued running, following the sounds of battle, the Finger chased down Way of Blue adherent. I followed the shouts, the clangs, and I came running behind the Finger.

The Finger stabs his rapier into my leg as I get close. I respond with my own, landing it in his shoulder. We circle slowly, in our macabre dance. I thrust and land a cut on his cheek, he thrusts and sticks it clean through my right breast, and out my back.

Through sheer luck, he strikes nothing lethal. Adrenaline rushes through me, and I give a hard left hook into his jaw, he reels back, unable to keep his rapier as it protrudes from my body. The Adherent comes close behind him, and slams into his back with a Morning Star. He crumples to the ground, and I fall to my knees as I feel the tug, and hear the sigh.

I come, wounded, on my knees. I reach in my pouch, and pull my estus, I drink down a swig, rip the rapier from my chest, and drink down two more. I feel the warmth spread through me. My wounds heal, I feel rejuvenated, but above all else, I feel a feeling I've not felt in my life. Fulfillment.

I'd found my calling, I fought for others, I honed my abilities, I'd gotten better weapons, I no longer used a plain rapier, but a rather refined one, modeled on prince Ricard's. I no longer kept my left hand empty, but rather a Caestus to add impact to my punches. My pouch of equipment increased in complexity. I no longer carried just my estus, but now carried Chloranthy, Firebombs, Throwing Knives, Kukri, and Golden Pine Resin.

I'd become a rather successful Sentinel, I'd not lost a charge in over a year. This was my fifth year of being Unkindled now. I felt the tug, adjusted my hat, gripped my sword, and prepared myself. A brief moment of stillness, and the sigh.

I rose into the Catacombs of Carthus, there were sounds of utter chaos. I see three unveiling eyes guiding me toward the Invaders, I choose the direction the crumbled skeletons lead. The Adherent must have gone this way.

I follow the scenes of battle, the path eventually leads to a bonfire, and a suspiciously moving vase. The Adherent bursts from the illusion of the vase, and thrusts his arms in the air. His flowing white robe, and scholarly appearance betray him as a sorceror. He shows a tinge of guile on his face.

"Hello, fair Sentinel, I am Dominick of Vinheim. I've a plan to gather these scoundrels in one fell swoop, should you be interested?" There is a gleam in his eye I've come to know only from the mad, the genius, and the devious.

"I am more than willing to put the numerical advantage they have to an end. What have you in mind?" Three on two, with only one of us able to perish without consequence, is not a battle I am interested in. A straight up fight I'm unlikely to win, and a plot to make the battle a flipped affair. I choose the plot.

"Not far ahead, there is a large, wooden, rope bridge. I need you to cross it. I shall hide, and when they cross the bridge, throw a knife into the ropes supporting the bridge. The bridge will drop, and the vermin with it." This one is strange, quite clever, but lacking in physical strength.

"I shall run ahead, and make plenty of noise, attract attention, and generally be a thorn in their sides?" I wait for his response before declaring the plan insane.

"Indeed,and I hide behind to block escape, whilst you block it on the other side." I rethink my declaration at those words. "Then, I will throw an oil casque and a firebomb on anyone that doesn't fall, and revel in the glorious light!" Now I am positive he's mad.

"Well, the plan is good, save the last little image you've left me." I start towards the bridge, loudly drawing attention, making noise as I fight through the Catacombs on the way to the bridge, the suffocating tight space on the gated path, previously locked by a lever, makes me nervous. Tight spaces are perfect for ambushing.

Surprisingly, despite their numbers advantage, they failed to attempt an ambush, all the while, I am loudly uttering screams of surprise, and grunts and gasps as I fight the skeletons before the bridge. The footsteps of two pairs of feet come rushing through the path I came. I rush across the bridge, and pull a kukri from my pouch.

The footsteps are on the rickety rope bridge, an abyssal chasm below, and the sound of distant running water. I hit solid ground on the other side, spin around and fling the kukri, cleanly cutting the left rope. A Mound Maker, and A Finger on the bridge utter a surprised gasp, as the bridge falls out from beneath them, and I give a quick wave goodbye. I am now stranded away from the host, and an invader is still hunting for him.

A familiar vase moves on the far left side, up a ridge. A puff of magic dispelling later, and Dominick dropped down onto a narrow ledge leading up to me. He gets close, and puts his fingers to his lips, making a "Shh…" He hands me a small, white twig, and indicates to hold it near my heart, and crouch.

I do so, and a transparent vase forms around me. He points to a little nook, surrounded by jagged stalagmites. I slowly move into the space. He then starts waving his arms, and yelling, while looking across the chasm.

"Over here! Come on, I haven't eternity. Actually I do, but I'd rather not spend it waiting!" The invader looks at the chasm, and the fallen bridge. He runs up the ridge, and drops to the ledge, chasing Dominick who has started running down the hall. I hear a splash, and sprint, tossing the snapped twig, I draw my sword, and thrust it into a chink in the armor of the Finger. He gasps, as Dominick pulls a firebomb, and chucks it onto his oily form.

The Finger bursts into flames, panicking, and trying to toss his chestplate. I give another thrust, for a more vital location, I strike between two ribs, and he falls to the ground, gurgling as he tries to breath. I feel the tug, and hear the sigh, as Dominick pats me on the back, and moves onward. Mad though he may be, he was right. A clever plan changed the advantage.

"Is that a jealous look in your eyes Anduin? I'd no idea you felt that way." I jest, trying to lighten the mood.

"More of nausea, you've nothing but boastful tales when it comes to your duty. I've heard better fights from Adherents." He's not wrong, as I grow more skilled, my fights grow less interesting. Less of a clash of the Well intentioned and the Nefarious, and more of an extermination of Vermin.

"Fine, I need rest, Anduin, can you keep watch for a while?" It's quite true, I've not slept in over a day. The affairs of last night were nerve racking .

"As long as you don't snore so badly. Gives me a headache." He jokes, I think. I lie down on the crude bedding that I'd laid Anduin on last night, and drift off to sleep.


	5. Confessions-2

**-Confessions-2-**

"You're a monster." Lyria says with an eerie realization in her voice. She's not entirely wrong. It's only a slightly unusual circumstance. People don't tend to survive calling me that.

"They made me this way, you know." I say with a notable animosity behind my voice. The hate I feel for them is endless. Even I have to admit, they make dangerous monsters.

"Continue?" Lyria asked earnestly.

"The last step, before I crossed the line, and couldn't turn back…"

It was my eighteenth birthday. I had two gifts, a disguise, and a specially made dagger. I was to travel to Jugo, infiltrate a sultan's court that was hiding sorceries his sorceresses had developed. I was to stay for a week, and then kill him. I dressed as a Desert Sorceress, the silky red skirt flowed down to my ankles, the thin, silky stockings clung tight up to my thighs, the brassiere was tight, making me seem more buxom than I really was, and the hood had a dark, mesh veil, in front of my face, giving the illusion of being without a face.

The journey was long, so I examined the dagger. Black, a stiletto dagger, Aquamarine gems embedded in the hilt, and the pommel. I was instructed to flip it in my hand, and channel magic into it like a staff. Doing so formed a flashsword, and focusing it held that shape. It was my modus operandi in the form of a martial weapon.

The reddish sands of the desert stretched on as far as my eyes could see. I thought for a bit on what-ifs, what if I had been raised here? What would my life be like? What if I had been a Desert Sorceress instead of being a black robe? Would I still be a happy young woman?

The journey was long, the sands stretch on forever. The arid air filled my lungs. It was hard to breath, extremely hot. Vinheim was bustling, but at least it was temperate. I slept, as the sands stretched on.

The journey was long, and the palace grew near. I gazed upon the colossal bulbs, shaped like a radish turned upside down. The colors were amazing. The palace was striking. Purples, blues, and vibrant yellow from the sandstone the palace was made of.

The inside man escorted me to the prepared chamber. He explained that a single week was not going to be near long enough to find all that I needed. He informed me that I was not disguised as a seasoned sorceress, but rather as a recruit to the pyromancy creating bunch. As a foreign recruit, I would not need to hide my nationality, or feign an understanding of pyromancy.

In my time in the palace, I would be taught pyromancy. As I learned to control and wield fire, they taught me not to fear the flame. I was supposed to finish in a week, I would call this home for three months. The issue came up, when I'd been learning pyromancy, and searching for the secrets that the Dean wanted. I'd been there for a week, when the sultan's son came to the practicing chambers.

His name was Johann of Jugo, and he was a broad shouldered, tall, and well built young man. The tone of his skin was a hair darker than mine, his hair was sleek, black, and well groomed. The look in his emerald eyes was one of an excited youth unwrapping a gift. Apparently not far from the truth, he'd been watching me when the sorceresses gathered, and told his father that I was the one he wanted. As his bodyguard at first, but he had other hopes for later.

He was smitten with me, trying every opportunity to convince me to be his bride. He'd been the only one allowed to see my face without the hood, I had to let him remove it, to maintain my cover of course. He always asked me why I seemed so glum, and joyfully announced that the occasion was one of celebration. If I asked why it was worthy of celebration, he would declare his lack of court duties, and my lack of scholarly ones.

Of course, I knew I couldn't take his offers, even if, at the time, and in retrospect, I would have greatly enjoyed the idea. I traded that chance, that way out, for the life I've lived. I let him continue trying to woo me for most of my time there. He wanted his exotic bride from Vinheim.

"You were torn between love, and duty?" Lyria whispers excitedly, interrupting my confession.

"I'd say it was more likely lust, but you seem much more interested than when I began." It was true, the nun was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. Excited, eager, and far from the terror stricken holy woman I'd initially been telling my tale to.

"Your story is getting interesting. I wish to know more." She had an eager tone in her voice. She seemed almost giddy. She's young, maybe too young.

"How old are you nun?" She looked at me with a moment of thought.

"Before, or after my death?" She asked with a puzzled expression.

"Both?" The question in response was unique, I didn't even think that she was Undead like me.

"Before my death, I was 14. After my death, I am 48. I was well enough liked that I was sent to Lothric with an Undead Knight to protect me, so I may continue my studies." The words stuck with me. This girl was too young for my tale, but, was also fresh enough not to forget it.

"I see. You've an odd temperament, for a child." She looks aggravated, but then quiets herself, remembering that I'm a monster.

"Continue?" She says, with her nun's tone back.

"Eventually, he asked me of what I valued most back home. I told him, seeing and learning new sorceries..."

He was eager to win me over. Eager, smitten, and privy to many secrets, including the ones I sought. He brought many scrolls, and a teacher to show them, but some of the scrolls were forbidden. I of course found, after learning a useful spell of my own, where he'd been fetching them from. It was this spell I would use.

I took the scrolls, all the hidden ones, and bagged them. I allowed Johann to bed me, and I accepted his proposal. It was my best way to reach my target in private. I had a short branch of white birch tied to my left leg, so that my skirt hid its presence. The dagger, was strapped just below it. He took me to a small dining hall, to privately introduce me to his father.

Of course, his father would see my face for the first time on the last night I'd remain in the palace. When I his father removed my hood, my head bowed, myself in a curtsy. I whipped forth the branch, channeling souls into the shaft of wood, focusing them into a large blade, and sweep it into the sultan, cutting through his body at the waist, I chain it into a quick spin, swiping the Soul Greatsword into Johann. As he falls, something inside me dies with him.

I put my hood back on, drew my dagger, slipped the branch back under my skirt, and thrust the dagger into the first guard's heart, pulled it, flipped it and sliced the second guard's throat. Leaving the only possible witnesses dead, I made my way to my handler, with the scrolls in my room already relocated to the carriage I'd be riding back. The journey was long, and my heart was heavy and black.

"You had a chance. A chance to go back, and you destroyed it." Lyria was tearing up, perhaps this dusty road held more dust than I thought, for in that moment, my own eyes were watering.


	6. Campfire Tale-3

**-Interlude 3-**

"Anduin, do you think we Hollow?" I ask in a concerned tone.

"I can't be sure, My memory is still fairly defined. I don't think I'm slipping. Why do you ask?" He can understand my dilemma, surely. The concern in his eyes is easily conveyed. I can see that this idea has come to him before as well.

"I'm worried, someday we will be aimless, and without goals left to accomplish…" I've felt myself begin to hollow, more than once in Lordran. It is a most unpleasant feeling, to lose yourself.

"You're worried that you'll forget?" Sincerity, none of his usual sarcastic tones. I've only heard this kind of sincerity from him two other times. When he told me the story of how he found his need for faith, and when he asked me to show him.

"Yes. You're like a brother to me, and I'd rather not have you watch me turn to a gibbering mess." I speak solemnly, a dry, sad tone.

"I'd hollow far sooner than you, you've determination in spades, and always a purpose. Now, that's getting somber for my tastes." He never has enjoyed the morbid philosophy I often delve into.

"Don't talk like that, you're full of hope, and faith. You've something worth fighting for." I've little idea why I fight anymore. I protect because I am a Sentinel, it is no choice anymore. What place have I, in a world with no need for Sentinels.

"And you don't? We're family now, Lupa." He hugs me, and I realize that we've never hugged before. He's right. We are family.

 **-Campfire Tale 3-**

"Anduin, I should finish this story, in short order. My next tale, is one from the Painted World. In it's frigid, rotting depths, I felt the tug. My new sword, a Rapier paired with a fistful of Kukri, sharpened and ready, the dark armour plates over the front of my leggings, and covering my hands and wrists gleaming in the bright, snowy locale."

The snow swirled close, my shawl billowed in the wind. I was cold, but the Adherent was more important than my comfort. I begin tracking, to find my charge, and his assailant. Fresh prints, yet unburied by the snow pass close to me. I inspect them, one set deep, pointed toes, long strides, and dragging footfalls. Heavy armor, and running.

The other set, light, oval shaped footfalls. Leather boots, light armor. The footfalls are shallow, the prints closer together. Taking it slow, cautious. Either an unaccosted adherent, or a careful Longfinger. This could be a dangerous task.

The unveiling eye, drifts down the hill, from the direction the tracks lead. It shows that there is only one to hunt my charge. The sound of clanking, and things being thrown about accosts my ears as I near the darkened building, the tracks lead into it, and the sounds come from the second floor.

I notice the shallow tracks tight, along the wall leading left, outside the building. Narrow, heel to toe, nearly erasing themselves. They break from the wall, and cross to a ladder, remaining heel to toe. I climb the ladder, to find a hole in the roof, a woman sitting on the rafters inside, watching me, and glancing to the door. Her finger touches her lips, indicating that I should remain silent.

I climb in, onto the rafters with her, and sit further back. She reaches into a pouch, and hands me a ring. I inspect it, finding it to be a dark, iron ring with a black gem embedded in it. The darkness seemed somehow false. I slipped the ring onto my finger, and the blue sheen of a Sentinel vanished, I looked as if I were present in my own world. I blended into the environment like a piece of furniture.

"He's loud, not bright." She whispers. Her hushed tone was a somewhat hardened one. She seemed more experienced than the usual adherents.

"Weapons?" I kept the hushed tone.

"The sword of a Darkwraith. A large greatshield. Replica of the Rock's." She recites from memory. This girl was young, but bright. Perhaps her skills do not lie in combat, perhaps that is why she is not a Sentinel.

"Armour?" The whisper carried weight. Knowing armour is important, the chinks are different between different suits.

"Leggings of a Black Knight, Breastplate of Sir Vilhelm, Helm of Alva, and the Gauntlets of an Exile." This armor had a lot of chinks, easy spots for a hard hit, but the style of a Darkwraith sword would not allow many shots at those exposed weaknesses. His weapons were to compliment his armour.

"Thank you. I am Lupa, of Carim." She smiles, her messy curls of auburn hair brushes her cheeks, and her hazel eyes gaze at my belt, the symbol of the Sentinels hanging low. She pulls a small scroll from her pouch, and slips it into my hands.

"Meghan, of Astora. Cartographer by trade. Don't read this, you'll need it in the land of old gods." She then gives me a light shove,dropping me down to the church floor. Two dead Corvian Knights told me a story that I'd been doubting. This was a capable fighter.

I left the church, and headed toward the sound of a frantic search. In the darkened library, I found books, scattered among broken tables, and splintered boxes. A trail of clutter indicating a search that went upstairs. I came upstairs, to find an angry Mound Maker, equipped as she had described.

He was alone, angry, and looking for a victim. I gave him a fight. I approached, and at ten feet out, I stopped, and watched. He frantically shattered anything that might be hiding a person.

"Madman! Ready thine blade, and prepare, for thine blood shall stain my sword!" I hold out my blade, crossing my left arm over my dominant right, in the pose of a Legion challenger.

He rushes, screaming in a rage, his sword drawn, and held out to his right at waist level. I turn my Caestus around, and use its studs and leather to deflect his sword. The thick blade missing by over a foot. I take a quick poke at the chink between his waist and his breastplate. It hits on the side, grazing his flesh. I pull back, watching as he flails out four swings, without landing a blow. He's a novice, or simply mad.

He reels back, and I deflect the blow, tossing his balance off, I then thrust upward at the waistline chink, slamming my blade deep into his torso. I place my left hand on his shoulder, and bring him to the ground, twisting the blade as I pull it out. His arms go limp, and he drops his sword.

I feel the tug, and a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Meghan, smiling and giving me a wave. I nod in response, as I hear the sigh of my desummoning. Not all adherents need the help so badly.


	7. Confessions-3

**-Confessions 3-**

"Lyria, have you ever felt yourself going mad?" The young nun has just awoken, after I allowed her to rest. She's ready to finish, and I'm near ready to move on. Five days of telling my story is taxing me.

"No?" The question was a bit strange, I'm not good at earnestness, deceit has been beat into my very being. Her answer and confusion make sense to a logical mind, something I'm not quite capable of with consistency.

"Are you sure? Never lost your temper and did something regrettable?" Everyone has to at some point, don't they? Am I that estranged with normality?

"I once yelled at the eldest nun, she was scolding me about concealing a work of fiction on the other side of a Divine tome, and I got angry that she was looking over my shoulder, as I sat on the stairs. I got up and, with my romance novel in hand, I started to run down the stairs… And… And... "

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she started sobbing. I know how this story ends. She's distraught. Death is a touchy subject, for some Undead. Often home to the most painful memories. To others, that peaceful oblivion between death and undeath is a form of bliss. Lyria is of the former group. I don't need to hear the rest, to know that this clumsy young girl didn't get up at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are you ready for one of the last parts of my story?" She continues sobbing, her short, slender form makes it painfully obvious that this isn't going to end until I console her. I sit down, right next to her, on her left, putting my arm behind her, and gently rubbing up and down her upper back. She puts her head on my shoulder, and continues sobbing.

Wiping her running nose on her sleeve, she starts to speak, with a quiver in her voice. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Sometimes… I still wonder if I'm going to wake up and find out that I just… Hurt my head and passed out. Then reality hits." She still has tears, running down her cheeks. Her composition is more stable now.

"I had five more years of loyal service, and one more spell learned. That was when I started getting anxious. Dozens of victims, and I had learned nothing. I started to feel that maybe I wasn't good enough. Like maybe I wasn't worthy of magic. I dealt not in despair, as I had long been numb. I muffled my footsteps, cast Hidden Body, and stood transparent, outside the conference room, while the Dean, and the heads of the sects of the Dragon School, discussed the state of affairs…"

"Alyssa, has your sect furthered research into the recovered scrolls from Oolacile?" The Dean had an air of dominance in his voice. Clear, concise. The old man was keeping them in line, and being clear about it.

"Yes, sir. We've translated a few more, and the Black Robes were given Chameleon for training purposes. The old language of Oolacile is proving more complicated to translate with each scroll." Her voice was smooth, soft-spoken, but carried with it a scholarly caution, as if she were hiding something.

"Cyrus, your recovery team has located the scrolls of Logan? Or am I misinformed?" The Dean's questions carried the sting of a demand. He wasn't asking, he was prying. If he didn't hear what he wanted, there would be consequences.

"We believe so, sir. A rogue mage has carried at least one of the scrolls to Irrithyll. From there, we believe he found a place to hide, our scouts have not been able to penetrate the dungeon, too dangerous. I'd suggest sending a black robe." His voice was rough, wizened. He was better traveled than I, and I'd had foreign assassination or recovery missions for the past five years. This man was dangerous, his voice said that much.

"Valetta, your Black Robes, I trust you've kept them busy?" His voice carried less dominance. I knew Valetta. She trained us Black Robes after our first test. She was crass, but knew when to be quiet. Deceitful, as befits one that teaches deceit. She had pitch black, short cropped hair, ending it's length just below her cheekbones, straight and well groomed. Her eyes were a deep shade of grey, her skin matched mine in a slight pallor, common in Vinheim. Her eyes showed paranoia, scanning every room, constantly watching for signs of danger, or small details. Her voice was the least shaken in the meeting.

"I've kept them busy alright, can't have them asking too many questions. Hate to lose a good one over some spells." Her words perplexed me, I felt nauseous. My world was beginning to crack.

"No, Valetta, it is never good to lose one, but we can't have order if they lack motivation. If we teach them the magic they seek, they will have no reason to continue following orders." My mind was spinning. The Dean said it, it must have been true. My world shattered, my sanity cracked. I went to my dormitory room. I was roomed with a Black Robe, he'd been sent off on a mission in Farron Keep. I'd never see him again.

I was distraught, angry, and alone… They say the mind bends to deal with trauma. That night, mine twisted into a frightening new shape. If they weren't going to teach me magic… After the stains in my soul… I would take it from them.

"You stole from them?" Lyria had been sitting on my lap for about an hour, her question showcased her innocence. Something she had that I'd not seen in a long time. At this time, I realize, despite appearances she is nearly twice my age. I died at twenty three, and have been Undead five years.

"You and I both know better than that. I slept that night, and I made my plot." My blood heated up thinking of that week. My old hate still burned.


	8. A Hunter Born

**-A Hunter Born-**

I studied them. The heads of each sect. On the first five days, I kept busy, acting as the spy they employed me as. Though not on the target I was given. I started with Alyssa, of the Xanthous scholars.

The Blonde woman was a child of Astoran emissaries, and kept her private life shrouded in secret. I studied vehemently. My prey would be left no chance. The sorceries of Oolacile were Alyssa's specialty, hiding in plain sight. Her every move eluded her guards. I watched in secret, better at hiding than even her.

She had a romance going between herself, and a consort from outside the Dragon School. Forbidden by the policies of the institution. Naughty woman. I lie in wait, within her quarters after five nights of stalking my prey.

Her consort, entered first, undressed and flung himself to her bed. I remained within the closet, she locked her door, and began undressing, my rage seethed. I remained hidden.

The seconds felt like ages, and she threw herself on top of her lover. I emerged, Staff in hand, Forming a Flashsword, and swinging it wildly about the bed, cutting them both cleanly, several times. Her last words… I remember them with pride, as I wipe the blood splatter off of my face with a smile.

"Why…?" Gurgling as I ready the flashsword to thrust through her head.

I spoke no words, the flourish was my answer. My rage subsided to caution. I was not ready to be caught. There was still prey to slaughter. I took the scrolls she kept in her office, and studied them in my room. Utility spells mostly.

I'd moved on, to Cyrus, head of a recovery team, locating the old sorceries of Logan. His habits were easier to follow. He slept each night in a chair in his office. Late nights would see a messenger from the away team, halfway to sunrise. I decided on a sadistic approach after a few days observation.

The balding man was tall, large, and had a weary face. He'd been part of the institution for his entire adult life, and was adjusted to his habits. His world weary demeanor would soon be put to rest.

Halfway to sunrise, I knocked on the door, Dagger in hand, he opened and had a surprised expression, reaching for his staff, not on his hip, as I sliced his kneecaps with the channeled flashsword from the dagger, dropping him to the floor. I grinned as I stuffed the end of my staff in his mouth, and watched the horror in his eyes, as I channeled souls through it.

The mercurial gas seeped out of each orifice, his pained struggling decreased as his helpless form slowly grew limp. The hot gas did the work expected of it. Jugo had quite the sadistic spell for me. Efficient. They would know who they had wronged when he was found. Valetta would be sure.

His scrolls were hidden in a secret compartment of his desk, I would learn them as I stalked Valetta. She would be a challenge. The only one to see through Chameleon, or spot Hidden Body. I would be hunting my mentor. And she knew I was coming.

My handler had sent word that I had never arrived. Valetta had seen this before. I was not the first. She sent her guards away, knowing they would serve no purpose against a Black Robe. We were trained to kill Mages and Diplomats. Disposing of Black Robes was Valetta's responsibility.

I tried to stalk my prey, to instead find a random Black Robe assigned as her stand in, and another delivering messages. She knew better than to work without proxies, and I had to track her safehouse. Following a trail of my fellow assassins, unseen, I found a small shack on the outskirts of the city, so far as to require crossing an open field in the forest.

She wanted me to come for her, knew that I wouldn't let it go, and wanted to face me alone. She was older than me, more practiced than me, and had slain many like me. But there were none like me. I had ascended, become more than a disgruntled assassin. I was rage incarnate, and knew more than she could have expected. The shack door was open, but would be too expected, the windows boarded, an early warning. I would have to fight on her terms, or take a third option.

She would see me coming, and I would be forced into battle. Should I win, none remaining could oppose me in my attempts on the others. I approached, making no effort to conceal myself. Knowing they would be pointless. I stood by the open door, and threw the Pestilent Mercury spell into the shack. The shattering window, and sound of a flashsword told me she exited the far side of the shack. The rustling grass told me she circled around, the quiet channeling told me to prepare my defense.

A twisted wall of light burst from my staff, stopping her flashsword on it's way to me. My dagger rushed forward, blocked by hers. The frantic swing of the flashsword coincided with my flashsword blocking hers, the daggers unlock and her slash meets my block. She was more aggressive about her attacks, as she knew I would falter in my defense sooner than she.

I form a flashsword from my staff, and one from my dagger, and cut through her blade. The shallow slice in her flesh prompted her cut blade to drop to the ground, and a wall of light to burst from her staff, blocking the magic. An error on her part, as my dagger sank into her stomach. The injury surprised her, but she responded with a swing for my throat with her empty left hand, finding a flashsword cutting through her wrist.

Her writhing hand fell to the ground, her eyes showed fear, and pride. My dagger pulled out, flipped in my hand, forming the flashsword once again, I stared into her eyes, as she dropped her staff. I hesitate, as she speaks.

"Hehe, you always were a good student. Finish this." Her voice didn't tremble, her eyes didn't waver. She was strong willed, but knew that she couldn't prevent a fatal blow.

"You…" I try to stifle my rage a moment. She had been responsible for raising me into what I was. She was however, following orders. "Deserve this."

"I know." Every fiber of her being acknowledged what she'd done, as my own acknowledged my misdeeds. "Now, you beautiful monster, kill me. I've been waiting." She was earnest. She wanted death, for a long time. However only a hand more skilled could deserve that right.

I held my blade no longer, and granted her that peaceful oblivion. Her limp form fell to the ground, and I found a single scroll in the shack. It contained three names, and locations. As well as a note at the bottom. The names were my remaining targets, and where they could be found. The note read: Skilled Hunter, kill them, the makers of monsters. -Mother

My prey led me, to the remaining leadership of the Headquarters. I would not falter. She acknowledged her role, and that she had become a sort of family for me. For all of us. She knew that one of us would eventually win. She wanted it. Valetta had a paranoia, because even allies were her enemies.

"You were just in those killings, they deserved their end, Velka would forgive those sins…" Lyria uttered desperately.

"I don't want forgiveness. I want the last kill. He's here, an Undead. The Dean was not from Vinheim. I will end him as many times as it takes." My hatred razed at my soul, burning at my sanity.


	9. Too Far Gone

**-Too Far Gone-**

"Gregory of Astora, a spymaster the Dean held in charge of manipulating foreign policy, as to allow Black Robe handlers to integrate into foreign society. I would stalk him without fail for a full week. To slay him, would sever connections to foreign lands and cripple the Dea…" I begin to utter his alias again, but stop shy. "Helger of Londor's grasp on the world at large."

I no longer sought to just kill them. I wanted to destroy what He had built. End him, and make sure he knew that he would leave no legacy. None would carry his name. None to speak his name. None to carry his voice, or finish his work.

The spymaster was no creature of habit, each day, at a different restaurant, a different handler would meet with him, and his voice would be carried to the man. He slept in a different inn each night, guarded by different Black Robes. My plan would form, with ire, not hate. I knew not this man, but knew that Valetta hated Helger as much as I. Her guidance would lead me. Her teachings would be his downfall. I no longer hated Valetta, but saw her as what she was. A mother to monsters, and I her prodigal child.

I waited until a Black Robe of my description was slated to guard him. I killed her, in cold blood, hid the body in a well, and took her place. I slipped into Gregory's room as the night crept close, the one place he would be nearly alone. The other Black Robe lay dead in a chair, nobody would notice for a while, I was careful to stab the base of his skull so the blood would not show.

He sat there, sipping his wine. Gazing at me as I walked in. His mouth opened to speak.

"You thought I wouldn't notice. I'm not a spymaster for lack of attention to detail. You've a devious look about you." His voice was one of intrigue, not suspicion. He knew not of what I'd planned, or he'd have been less forthcoming. "Well, out with it. I have only a night, fore I need new guards. Here to persuade me to put in a good word? Seduce me for information? Beg me for a better position? I've heard them all!"

He would not like the answer I gave. Honesty is the best policy. I walked up, with a seductive sway, to hide my true motives. I sat on the bed next to him, brought my head right up to his ear… And felt his body jerk, as my dagger left my hip, and was stopped by my staff.

"As I've said, I've heard them all. Now young lady, prepare to die!" He pulled my dagger out of the staff, preparing a second strike. I channeled souls into the staff, piercing his throat as the flashsword formed. He dropped the dagger, and clutched his throat… I start out and then hear the distinctive sound.

A Talisman, channeling sunlight. His wounds heal, and he grins at me. Channeling Sunlight into a spear of Lightning, he throws it at me, I form a twisted wall of light, and deflect it. Then I fire off a Soul Spear, which he dodges. I haven't an unlimited focus to channel sorcery, so I must slay him quickly. A drawn out fight would see me killed.

He channels sunlight into a degree of darkness, firing off gnashing flies to gnaw at me. I dodge them, as they begin to turn back, I thrust forth with a Soul Greatsword, and he ducks beneath the thrust, I twist the blade, and slam it down into him, with all my hate and anguish. The blade turns dark, and cleaves through his inadequate attempt to dodge. I rip the talisman from his hands, and cast Pestilent Mercury in the doorway, to cover my escape.

I leap onto the roof across the way, a floor down. Then cross that roof, and drop into the street, blending into the panicked crowd fleeing the sound of the fight. Mages are known to cause collateral damage in their battles. The spymaster's death would hurt Helger. My next kill, would cripple him.

Her name was Elizabeth, from a distant land called Mirrah. She was in charge of the local guard. The closest thing to a general in Vinheim. She kept her face behind a mask, supposedly made for a gentleman in the land of Mirrah. A name in a language that nobody speaks was carved on the left cheek. Her sword was simple, but showed remarkable craftsmanship.

I watched her from afar. She was not very sociable, but it was known that she would not step down from an honest challenge. Her blade had notches etched into the geisteel, one supposedly for each contender that she had slain in a duel. Her duels were the only time she drew her sword away from prying eyes. I could most easily slay the target, by challenging her to such a duel, though that meant a prepared Knightess meeting me for a fight.

I couldn't just leave her standing. No. That would mean that something of his doing remained. He brought her here, from the falling land of Mirrah. To leave her standing would leave his legacy. To leave his legacy would make nothing I had done yet have meaning. He would have nothing, not so long as I breathed.

I climbed through a fourth story window, my fingers bleeding, and I sat in her office chair, waiting. The night air drifted in, keeping me awake, keeping me thinking. This target, I had nothing against, aside from the fact she was His. That hate, singular, fuming, burning inside my blackened heart. It kept me sane, and torched my sanity. My driven focus was guided by that ire.

She came in, her usual time. Early morning, a tray in her hand, a grilled steak on the tray. Her day was habitual, though she had many consorts at night, I sought to have it seem she abandoned her post. Her gaze drifted from the tray to her seat, to see me, waiting patiently. She spoke calmly, a bit of surprise in her voice.

"You look like one of the assassins. But you lack the demeanor. Allow me to close the door, and then tell me what it is you want. Pull up your own chair, I'd prefer familiarity." She spoke elegantly, as one with formal schooling, Yet, her sophistication held the tones of one who'd known hunger. She wasn't born noble, she became it. She closed the door, and I honoured her request, pulling up a chair and granting her the seat.

"Elizabeth, I seek to challenge you to a duel. Will you agree to meet me, alone, in martial combat, at the south edge of the city, where the white birches grow?" I asked sincerely, knowing that I needn't lie.

"A challenge? Fine. When? I can go after my meal, we could walk together, should you like?" She was interested. It isn't often someone challenges her, though her sword had fourteen notches on the part I could see, and many more on the other side. She would gladly skirt her duties for a good fight.

"Tonight, at moonrise. I'll be waiting, simply call out." She looked up from her food, as she ate, the quizzical expression apparent. "Cara. Call out Cara." She nodded. I slipped out the window as she shrugged and motioned toward the door. I whispered in response. "I can't, I'm wanted." She nodded, her mouth full, her blue eyes gazing back at me.

I went to the safehouse, and slept in the bed. The white birches overlooked me. My mother was buried beneath the largest one. A kindness unto a kindness. The bed was firm, rough made. It was the best sleep I'd known in years. This was home to me now. I would work from the safehouse, as the dorm was unsafe.

I awoke as the moon rose, high into the night. I ate some of the food I'd been stealing for my hunts. An apple, and some dried beef. The spices left an aftertaste in my mouth. It was a pleasant, gentle burning.

"Cara, I came alone. I trust you'll fight fair, let us discuss terms!" The giddy, eager voice of Elizabeth rang into the night. Woman of her word. I'll honor my request, if nothing else.

I emerge from the safehouse, it's simple silhouette behind me, as the moon cast light down, Elizabeth approached, the hilt of her sword gleaming, and her mask shining bright white. The bearded mask was clearly not intended for a woman. It showed no emotion, but I knew that behind it, the Knightess was smiling.

"I'll not draw my weapons, until you've agreed to the terms." I call out, seeing that she is alone, and to my knowledge told no one.

"To the death, or to first blood? I'll not restrict your weapons, as you'll not restrict mine." She spoke elegantly. Her voice honeyed, as one taking great enjoyment. She loved duels.

"To the death, begin thirty paces apart?" I'm familiar with the terminology.

"Of course, you mages need some space. I'll allow it." How kind, she was. Or Arrogant. Arrogance she'd earned, but arrogance nonetheless.

"So let's begin. En guard!" She unsheathes her sword, a greatsword of simple design. She wields it in one hand, with a leather and geisteel round shield. I channel souls into my staff, forming a flashsword, and I flip my dagger, to form another. I assume an aggressive stance, my blades held at odd angles.

She cautiously approached, as I charged, vicious, rabid. I swung rapidly, left upward, right downward, left downward, right upward, both at once inward at the center, both outward from the center. Every fiber of my being, every ounce of my soul, burning in that moment. As each slash brushed off the shield.

I feel it before my mind processes what I am seeing, my heavy breathing interrupted by a heavy thrust of the greatsword. The taste of blood filled my mouth. I went limp. That gentle oblivion lasted maybe a few minutes. Then sensation returned.

I felt a burning in my heart, I woke in the bed in the safehouse. Hearing the shoveling of dirt into a hole. I rose from the bed, dagger in hand, and rushed the sound. The source of the sound was Elizabeth, filling in the grave she'd dug, next to Valetta's. It dawned on me then, who was in the hole. I couldn't see a body, and knew there wouldn't be one. I thrust the dagger into her back, tackling her into the hole. I pulled it, and slammed it in, again, and again. There was a burning in me. I knew what I'd find when I inspected for wounds, but I didn't care. This was good.

There would be nowhere for Him to run. Nobody that could protect Him. Elizabeth lie dead, unrecognizable. I'd been stabbing for a while. It didn't quell the burning. Nothing ever has.

I killed Helger in his office that day. Broad daylight. He didn't resist, I learned why quickly. When I left his body, and saw him not an hour later, leaving his quarters. He was Undead. As I was. Upon seeing me, he fled. I gathered information in pursuit. He's here in Lothric. Hiding. I won't let that bastard live any longer. No more awakening at his closest idea of home.

"Do you believe you can actually kill Helger? Octus had long lost his will to fight, but Helger sounds ambitious. Won't he just keep reviving?" Lyria has doubt and a desperation in her voice. Things I cannot show, and can barely fathom.

"I can't be stopped from ending his miserable existence. He can't run, he can't fight, and he can't outwait me. I know too much, I've come too far." I can't turn back. He must die. This must end.

"I can help you, use miracles, keep you healed. You aren't strong enough to do this alone" Lyria is desperately clinging to some semblance of hope.

"Knowledge is power. Power is life. Life is finite. My Life can no longer end. I am a god now." The mantra rings forth from my lips, strong, stern. The color drains from Lyria's face. I slash at her, leaving a shallow flesh wound. I turn my back to her and start my Hunt.


	10. A Tale Caught Up

**-A Tale Caught Up-**

Anduin lies, his back to the fire, snoring softly. I watch a little drool drip from the corner of his mouth, as the sun rises behind him. Like a younger brother. I chuckle to myself.

His rest is cut short, as I hear the sigh of his summoning. I run over to him, shaking him awake, thrusting his sheathed blade and his shield into his hand, and sitting his helmet on his lap. He looks at me warmly for a moment, realizing why I'm throwing equipment at him.

"I'll be right back Lupa. Maybe I'll have a story to tell you!" He jokes groggily.

He fades, as he is pulled to the world of an Adherent, deeply in need. I speak under my breath.

"Come back to me, old friend." My worries will not yet subside. I know he's tough, faithful, and proud, but he is also predictable, stubborn, and impulsive. If he comes back in the condition he was last time, I don't know how I'll handle it.

The seconds turn to minutes, the minutes to an hour. I hear a sigh, accompanied by a second not a half second later. Panic sets in, is it Anduin? An invader? Has a Finger tracked me down? Or a Madman? I turn to the sound, to see Anduin, and an unfamiliar knight. In the arms of the knight, a young girl, silver in hair, fair of skin… And wearing bloodied saint's robes.

A nun, from Carim? Here? This young? Gods, she's hurt. I stand and approach the stranger.

"How can I help?" I ask the stranger, frantic in my speech.

"Clean clothes, a bit of rest, maybe some soup? The girl is fine now. Was mumbling till she fainted. She'll have quite the story…" The stranger rambles a bit. His face is fully concealed behind his helmet, the red and black tones of his armor are foreign to me, yet all too familiar.

"Stranger, might I ask your name?" My voice raised in curiosity. The strange man has a peculiar demeanor.

"Would it be strange if I told you that I'm not sure of the truth of it? I'm a Hollow you see, close to the edge, but never quite able to fall over. What do they call you?" He speaks with sorrow in his voice, but a glibness I cannot comprehend the source of.

"I am Lupa, of Carim, Sentinel of the Way of Blue. I am pleased to meet you." I give a deep bow, my hand out near my stomach.

"Lupa, huh, a wolf. Lovely name for a Sentinel. You'd make a good tale someday. Anduin there said the two of you can keep the girl safe, I've a destination to leave for. She's no adherent, but I figure your hands are better than mine, more story to be told here." He sets the young girl down, onto Anduin's bedding, pulls a Black Separation Crystal from his pouch of scrolls on his back. The crystal glows with a purple aura, and the strange man vanishes, as the sigh of a desummoning rings in my ears.

Anduin places a hand on my shoulder. His touch is gentle, but I can feel his hand shaking. He's unnerved.

"Anduin, what's troubling you?" I ask with a touch of uncertainty.

"The girl. When I found them, she was mumbling. One word, over and over. Cara… Cara…" He looks distressed, shaken. His voice is uneasy. This is my friend terrified.

"It's okay, Anduin, we're safe here. Who is Cara?" Who, or what could frighten a veteran Sentinel so badly?

"She was the one… That mage… That savage… She was the one that left me like that. This girl encountered her. She must be stopped." His fist clenched tightly. I take my Sentinels symbol off of my belt, the small cloth badge shows a crescent and a sword, faded blue on a brown cloth. I slip the badge into my equipment pouch. Anduin does the same.

"We'll have to learn more when this girl wakes then. Sleep in shifts?" My voice almost shaking from my urge to begin. This is justice. This sin is unforgivable.

"You rest first, you need it more than I." His voice is frail, as though he were small as a mouse. A far cry from the man I've known so very long.

"Okay." I lie on my bedding, near the girl. Close enough that if she should move I'll know. When she comes to, we'll make her feel welcome, and learn what we need to know.


End file.
